Harry Potter: The Choice and The Chosen
by Chrisrawr
Summary: This summary will be updated with my current status of writing. In Progress: Harry Potter and The Trials of Flame Synopsis: Harry Potter finds out he's a wizard.


Preface: Severely altered AU. Many characters will be superficially the same, but their thought processes and inner conflicts will be observed and scrutinized in much more detail than in JKR's books. First person observations through Harry mostly, but will occasionally switch to others.

Relies heavily on HP Canon as a structure - however, the scope is expanded and many holes, or 'weak foundations', are filled in and redone.

Mary and Marty Sue will not be here. No bashing - I firmly believe that every character is one worth investing time to write and flesh out properly. Believable and thoughtful power scaling. Sensible magic and lessons. Scarily powerful Voldemort and Dumbledore.

Please remember to review with any suggestions or thoughts - I love to hear from my readers. Please keep your criticism polite and honest, but know that I'd rather hear why you disagree with me than not hear from you at all!

Also, just so we're clear: I do not own Harry Potter or related works. Any IP used here is not having money made off of it. This is the last time you'll see this note.

* * *

"Normal Speech"

'_Thoughts/Thinking'_

**Bold of any kind indicates communication  
that has been magically produced or altered,  
in accordance with the above speech guidelines. **

* * *

There's an old motto amongst Pureblood Wizards: Sangum Patronus, Sanguis Potesto. "The blood of your father is the blood of kings." As I stared into the dark eyes of Voldemort - little more than a growth protruding from the back of my once-professor's head - I could almost, _almost,_ understand the sentiment behind such a saying.

Maybe it was the tendrils of power that radiated from his eyes, or the way he stripped away my will and essence with his Magics - digging into my thoughts with ease.

Certainly, it could've been the how, despite the cloying stench of burned sugar and sulfur from his hand and arm igniting and flaking away, the 'Heir of Slytherin's grip on my throat never lessened for a second.

It could've been any number of things: the regal manner of his stride as he took control of his host, the way that Magic itself seemed to bend space and light around him (so dense was its presence). But what hinged it for me - really hinged it - was his jaw. It was a most kingly jaw.

That is, the _crunch_ it made when the Philosopher's stone crashed into it was _bloody royal._

* * *

But where are my manners? My name is Harry Potter, as you might have guessed. I'm eleven years old, turning twelve this Summer. I like flying, and charms, and Quiddich. I enjoy watching the starry sky when I can't sleep at night, and eating icecream on hot days. For the first time in my life, I've got new clothing and new shoes - all with my own money. Well, my real parents' money, but they left it for me.

I'm currently hanging onto consciousness - just - at the feet of a furious (and bleeding) dark lord who's about to hex me into oblivion, shortly before obtaining immortality and taking over the world.

However, to really understand the situation I currently find myself in I suppose we'll have to rewind to the start of the story.

* * *

Like the beginning of everything great and good, my life and childhood were (and still are) tragic. Foisted off to muggles after my parents died, raised without knowledge of my Magical heritage, kept in the dark about my rights and responsibilities by those who would see me _protected_.

I loath the word. Protection. It's for those who want safety and security, not those seeking adventure!

Of course it wasn't _all _that bad. Aunt Petunia is a wonderful woman, for a muggle, and she's taught me much of what I know about life and kindness. Uncle Vernon - while distant and short-tempered when his authority is challenged - has never once laid a hand on me in anger.

And Dudley, my adventurous compatriot, is the one I've missed the most during my education in Hogwarts. He'd been my constant companion, when I'd thought myself a normal child - a roguish boy, with a powerful frame and a cunning mind - both honed by years of plotting and plays of dominance during recess and lunch.

In fact - now that we're on the subject and I'm feeling introspective - it was much like Hogwarts at home. Petunia, the Hufflepuff; a fierce badger, loyal and caring for her young. Vernon, the Gryffindor; quick to act, but just and righteous. And Dudley, the Slytherin; sly and maneuverable - striking when you least expect, and glorious in victory.

That leaves Ravenclaw for me; curious, bright, calm, and collected.

...

Yes, I laughed too. Could you imagine? I suppose we didn't have a Ravenclaw to balance us out, as for most of my stay at Hogwarts, I'd thought of myself as being _almost _as Gryffindor as they come. We made do anyways, and for eleven years - aside from the occasional 'freakish' accident - our lives were quite sunny.

And then _The Letter_ came.

Adorned with a wax seal, like out of some old-timey film with Lords and Kings and what-have-you, the letter was delivered right to me by an owl.

When I say right to me, I don't mean _to my house_ or _given to me by my parents_, no, I'd been on my way to school one morning and a bleeding owl dropped it onto my head. Then, it screeched and flew off.

It read, and you know I'm not clever enough to be making this up:

_**HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF  
WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore  
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme  
Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find  
enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later  
than 31 July._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall  
Deputy Headmistress_

...

I thought it was a hoax, at first - I knew the Dursleys didn't have enough money to afford anything fancy like the boarding school Hogwarts made itself out to be. I'd never heard of the place, either - though I suppose I'd never given my future education much thought, at that_. _

Besides, the list of supplies was preposterous. I distinctly recall reading it and thinking, '_How am I supposed to buy a dozen live slugs, no shorter than fifteen centimeters?' __Petunia and I killed all the slugs in the district at ____least__ twice last summer._

Of course, as hundreds of owls (and dozens of pigeons, a score of bats, and at least one drake) began to camp our roof and lawn, it simply became an _elabourate_ hoax to me - I hadn't picked up on how nervous Petunia was getting, being a regular 11-year-old boy and lacking such observational skills - and Vernon had been furious at the whole ordeal, thinking someone to be spying on us.

We took a vacation from the ruckus of avians, hoping they couldn't bother us if we weren't home. We were _dead wrong. _Just as we'd about had a melt-down, Hagrid swooped in to let us in on the whole '_Magic'_ business. The dear, sweet man was a godsend at the time, and has continually amazed me with his friendship and kindness since.

He arrived on the porch of our Summer home (his knocking broke the door off its hinges) at the crack of midnight - the very moment of my real birthday, I've been since told. Until that time, I'd always shared a birthday with Dudley – mostly so that the Laser Tag and Paintball sets and videogames could be split evenly. It wouldn't do to make "_Poor Duddy-kins" _or "_Widdwe Hawwy-Wawwy" _upset and jealous, now, would it?

Anyways, back to Hagrid. His great frame - half again as large as Vernon, who is no small man himself you must understand - blotted out both rain and lightning from the small tropical storm raging behind him. Muscles bulged through his thick leather jacket as he stepped through the doorway and hefted the door back into place.

As calmly as you please, he introduced himself, and lit a fire in our darkened grate with what I'd assumed to be his umbrella, but which turned out to be a _wand _in an umbrella _holster _(which, I've been told with a knowing wink, was because he couldn't cast the umbrella charm without poking himself in the eye – it's designed for humans, not halfgiants).

He proceeded to present my cowering family with a slightly squashed birthday cake.

...

Well, you can imagine how we took it. We were a _normal_ family. Normal things happened to us. Vernon had grown up, married his love from highschool, got a job, had a kid, got promoted, adopted another kid, etc., etc. Very Orthodox Catholic values, very no-nonsense man. _"WITCHES? WIZARDS? WHAT DEVILRY IS THIS?!" _You can visualize it quite easily, I would assume – his face turning purple with anger, his moustaches quivering in rage.

Hagrid talked with him about Jesus being a Wizard for a bit, but I couldn't bring myself to listen – Sunday School was for Sundays, not vacations.

When their conversation finished, he'd asked if I had any questions. I didn't - I hadn't had time to think of any, or to even wrap my brain around the whole business - but Petunia did, and asked them for me anyways.

"_What kind of place is Hogwarts? Are you a Professor there? Will it cost much? Will he be fed and safe?"_ I had a feeling, then, that she might have known something more than the rest of us about this whole situation. She didn't seem shocked, just disappointed and resigned.

It seems she asked all the right questions, too, because Hagrid began to talk excitedly about someone named Dumbledore, and how great he is – I got interested when he began talking about Dragons' blood and fighting off Dark Wizards – _that_ was my kind of school.

I wouldn't even call him dumb-old-door, if he'd let me see a real dragon.

After that I required, perhaps, slightly less convincing than my adoptive parents and brother. We moved to the table and began to arrange an outing to some place called Diagonally. Besides, I'd begun to notice strange things happening around me from time to time.

Dudley was giving me sly, betrayed looks - as if I'd kept the whole business a big secret from him. Vernon was concerned and protective, though mildly intimidated by the presence of someone larger than him. And Petunia simply looked full of regret and sorrow.

Hagrid nearly choked on his cake when I asked if 'talking with snakes' was normal for wizards, while Petunia - who'd been glad of my parseltongue during the Summers - merely shook her head with worry. She'd kept her knowledge of Magic from Vernon and Dudley (who both looked frightened and intrigued, to varying degrees).

After a short explanation about Light and Dark magic - and, seemingly, an even shorter sleep, I was off with Hagrid to Diagonally. He'd been given a portkey to a small pub, the name of which I can't recall. I don't know why we needed a portkey, when he had his motorcylce - but I sort of liked the trip. Like a roller coaster, a little. Imagine one without bars or speed, though - just lots of loop-de-loops.

Diagonally itself was fantastic - there's too much to write about in this brief explanation, but I'll be sure to detail it more thoroughly once I'm done with Voldemort and Quirrel.

Speaking of which, where the _blood_y_ blazes _is Ron?

We didn't get much at the shops, so I can't describe them very well to you. There were lots of them, though - alleys and streets and entire skyscrapers full of them, and I'm sure there's more underground as well.

Most of what I got was practical; robes that cooled or warmed with a word, cauldrons that could shrink or grow to almost any feasible size, trunks with feather charms, and many other supplies (all paid for in advance - I hadn't been aware of my vault at Gringotts, at the time! I'd simply figured that Wizards didn't need money, what with all the Magic about!).

We didn't get any books, but we did get many rolls of parchment and a few ever-lasting fountain pens. I'd thought it odd, but Hagrid waved off my questions.

He must have noticed my annoyance at being dismissed – for when next I looked his way, he had a massive bowl of icecream in one hand, and a spoon pointed at me in the other. We sat and talked and sipped hot coaco while I watched the bustle and he pointed out sights of interest.

"'_At err's Nev'l Longbot'm – 'e'll be in yer year, 'nless 'is gran 'olds 'im back. 'Is parents was almos' as famous as yours, 'Arry, but you'll learn abou' 'at soon 'nuff." _

We exchanged pleasantries with a few curious passer-bys as our stomachs settled. However, the part I'd been waiting for most eagerly was still to come. With a final farewell to the nice lady that had earlier fitted my robes, and who had stopped by to grab a tea on her lunch, it was time for me to get my wand.

...

Now, I'm not the greatest mind of my generation - an honour that I can say without a doubt goes to Hermione - but I think I can tell you on good authority that a Wizard's wand is _special_. It's not simply a _focus__, _nor is it some sentient Magical branch.

Wizards don't need wands to do Magic - they didn't even exist until relatively recently. No, the wand... it's like a mouse and keyboard, for a muggle computer. Ollivander might be sentimental in his dotage, with his '_The wand chooses the Wizard, Mr. Potter!'_ - but he's not far off; Using a wand that's not meant for you is like trying to use someone else's fingers to scratch an itch on your nose. (There's a spell that can do that, coincidentally)

Regardless, my wand happens to be special - even in a world where Wizards and Magic exist. Holly, 28 Centimeters - four knots of Seven, I might add, both powerful numbers in themselves - and with a magical core of Phoenix tailfeather. It's a direct connection to the deepest reaches of Magic, the kind Merlin would have wanted, had it existed in his age.

A unique combination, Holly and Phoenix tailfeather - or so I've been told. All I know is that it's flexible and strong, with enough durability to come back from any kind of punishment. I've had Hermione _Reparo_ it from an _Incendio_, just to be sure.

In fact, it's so special that there's only one other wand like it in all the world. _Voldemort's. _It's a wand of power, to be sure.

Reaching for Magic through it... Well, first off, wandless Magic is notoriously difficult - like counting a big pile of sand with the tide washing over it all the time, or creating a masterful painting without paint or brushes, or building a house out of Whomping Willow.

As with any good tool, wands not only speed up the process, they make it more accessible - easier to do, with less effort and training. Each wand is a unique connection to Magic - forged by a master enchanter, no less - and each connection, each interface is different.

For instance, Hermione's described her Channeling to be a bit like '_reading a dozen essays at once' _- go figure. Ron's likened his Magic to '_leading a throng of Freds into battle against a horde of Georges, without getting caught in the middle'. _The poor bloke.

And mine? _Pure willpower_. Like hanging onto a broom without charms for Wind Shear - with your mind, instead of your arms.

The results, however, are worth the struggle; from the moment I grasped it in my hand, trembling at the thought of _being a Wizard,_ some part of me felt complete. Like taking your arm out of a cast and using it for the first time in years. Like feeling the wind in your hair after being bald...

...Like I could reach out and feel the threads of magic humming around me. I nearly fainted in the shop, though I suppose I've acclimatized to it by now. It still creeps up on me, surrounded by the Magic in Hogwarts. But it was then that I knew, _truly knew_, that Magic was real.

* * *

When I was returned to the Dursleys, at Number Four Privet Drive, it was well past my bedtime. I was welcomed by a steely-faced Vernon and a fidgeting Petunia. Dudley had gone off for a sleepover at one of his friends' hosues at their prompting.

Petunia was to talk with me, _thoroughly_, about how she knew I was a Wizard and didn't tell anyone.

It turns out that Vernon hadn't liked being kept in the dark - and once I'd had time to think about it, after the flurry of activity at Diagonally, I decided that I didn't either.

She took me to the attic, with Vernon following to learn more about this wider world I was to become a part of soon.

I could tell that Magic frightened him. The thought of being defenseless - after spending so much of one's life building up an impenetrable combination of finances, reputation, and physical mass - gave him more than enough reason to be prepared as he could be.

His eyes had grown deep, purple bags from a night without sleep, and he would flinch whenever I showed him something new I'd gotten while we waited for Petunia to unlock the folding stair.

"_Please don't be mad at me. I had hoped..."_ She gave me a heartbroken look – hurt but also scared of hurting. "_I had hoped he'd be... normal."_ Petunia closed her eyes and turned away, crying as she lowered the stair. We climbed, single-file and in silence.

I didn't know what to say, I didn't know what to feel. Hurt? Maybe, but I knew she loved me regardless. Betrayed? A small bit – but what does an eleven-year-old boy know of betrayal? So I just followed, confused and disgruntled and brooding.

...

In the attic were two trunks, which had gone unnoticed by us all these years. We didn't see them even then, until Petunia said something under her breath, and they shimmered into existence.

They were plain, though large and well-polished. Planks of oak held together by large iron bands, with a lock built in and leather straps for whatever one might want to do with them. They would have looked at home in a videogame dungeon, or a pirate ship.

Petunia opened one with a key, and the other opened in response – a linking charm, I suppose, though it was impressive at the time. Inside them was the reason my trip to Diagonally had been so short.

In one, there were books and pictures, dozens of vials filled with liquids of every colour, rolls of used parchment, and dozens of shrunken jars.

Immediately, the scent of parchment hit me, followed by something less noticeable – a musky colonge, fresh-cut grass, lavender, and...

"Her name was Lily." Petunia had looked close to crying. "She was my best... My sister. She's... was, your mother." I did a double take, stunned. She gestured, and I ran, stumbling, over to the other trunk.

On top, it held a long dress, beautiful and green and so vibrant in the dim light that it was completely at odds with the musty decor that filled the rest of the room. I instantly knew that it was my mothers' – my real mothers' - and I buried my face in it, careful not to leave stains with my childish tears.

Eventually I folded it - gently, reverently – and placed it on one side of the chest . I didn't know what to think at the moment, didn't know how to reconcile the mother who'd raised me with the mother who, even now, I felt a connection growing with.

Underneath was another robe, regal red and gold, which I like to think exuded masculinity and chivalry. I took a while to immerse myself in the smells and clothes of my parents. Moving past them, the rest of the trunk was full of old-timey photos and letters. I was a little bit disappointed at how mundane they looked.

...Until I noticed that the pictures moved, as if they were films. '_Not films'_, I remember thinking, as one waved to me, alerting the others, '_Those are my parents... and their friends!'_ I have no words for the mixture of wonder and awe I was feeling, as they blew kisses and jeered each other and winked at me.

A sudden panic overcame meas I realized how tired I was, and how late it was getting. '_I can't leave them here!' _

"_Can I put these in my room?" _Petunia nodded mutely, and helped Vernon drag the trunks down the folding stair. There had been some protest by Vernon, expressing his ability to get them down alone. That is, until Petunia activated the trunks' levitation charms, after which she had to coax him into even grasping the other handle.

* * *

I didn't leave my room that entire week, or the one after. I think Petunia opened the door to bring me food and Dudley slid me notes under the door, inviting me to wherever he was going – birthdays, swimming, bowling, whatever.

It was nice of him – he knows that I thrive on attention, and he's always tried to include me in his ever-growing social life.

I hardly noticed any of that while it was happening, though. For those two weeks, my parents' trunks enveloped my life. I went through everything, even when I didn't understand it.

I wore articles of clothing from both of them, or draped them around me when I couldn't make them fit. I read scribbles in margins of old textbooks, notes passed to or from friends, diaries, essays, and scrapbooks.

I immersed myself and sunk deep inside the magical world of my parents' lives. I never knew them, had no memories of them, but being even this close to them felt fundamentally _right. _If holding my wand was like having a new limb, then this was having the Sun shine down on it on a warm day, with a cool breeze and an ocean spray. I felt myself growing and stretching, Magically and as a person, as I grew to know them.

When I came out of my shell, I didn't know what day it was. I didn't know what _year_ it was. No one was in the house, so I thought maybe I spent forever in my room and everyone died except me because wizards live longer than muggles – it was a scary thought, and not too rational, even for me. Two weeks without bathing will do that to the best of us.

I cried while I poured myself cereal, and cried some more as I wetted it with milk, until I noticed the date on the jug. The sharp heat of shame kept me warm until my family got back from shopping.

...

I spent the rest of the summer going over our textbooks for the first year, though not entirely of my own volition. Petunia wanted me to be prepared, and Vernon would be damned if any son of his did poorly in school.

About half-way through the Standard Book of Spells for Firsties, Number 4 Privet Drive had a visit from Professor McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress who had written my acceptance letter.

Having been Dudley's brother and companion at school, I recognized immediately the stern gaze of a no-nonsense educator. Her eyes swept the entrance once and then locked onto my own, staking me to the spot as well as if she'd nailed my feet to the floor.

"_Potter. Harry._" I'd gulped and nodded, and mumbled in a fashion I would later be ribbed for embarrassingly.

The Deputy Headmistress' gaze softened with her smile – though her eyes never left mine. After a brief introduction – during which we were joined by Vernon and Petunia – she explained the nature of her visit.

"_We've been receiving reports of Underaged Magic from this address..."_ You can imagine my shoch, surprise, and disappointment. No magic outside of school, for seven entire years? The rest of the Summer had just gotten a lot longer.

* * *

I entered Platform Nine and Three Quarters with the help of one Mrs. Weasley - a beautiful redheaded woman on the cusp of middle-age, leading a gang of yet more redheads in various shapes and sizes. Her youngest son, Ronald, is the same age as me. We ploughed through the barrier at the same time, with seconds to spare.

"Bloody _Hell_, that was close! Could you imagine if we'd missed the train?" I'd gasped at his use of language more than his implication.

"Not a chance! They wouldn't leave without us, would they?" We decided to look for an empty cab, rather than join another group, to distract us from our near miss. Near the back of the train, we found one that had just been evacuated due to a prank of some sort. I was wary at first, but Ronald looked in and gave it the all-clear.

"_You can call me Ron, by the way. Ronald is for when I'm in trouble. What's your name? Do you like Quidditch?" _I stopped myself from rolling my eyes – I was excited to be making new friends, too, but this was something else.

He was shocked when I told him my name, but got over it just in time to be even more shocked that I had never seen or played his favourite sport. Professing my desire to be a Chaser mollified him, somewhat, but I could tell he'd be trying to set me straight on the matter soon enough.

...

During the day-long journey, I learned more about Hogwards - and the world of Magic, wizards, and witches - than I had in my entire Summer before. Hagrid, bless his soul, isn't the greatest at understanding a muggle-born child's point of view.

Though neither of us had any money for the snack tray, it once again seemed that someone had been thinking of me - the stewardess kindly minded us that I had a tab paid up in advance. We gorged ourselves on chocolate frogs and treacle tart throughout the trip - until a girl our age knocked on the door.

I don't feel bad for laughing, a little, when we opened the door. I hid it well, though Ron had no such tact. She _did_ look as if someone had made a wig out of Hagrid's wiry mane and donated it to someone three sizes too small.

"_Oh hello, I'm Hermione Granger. What's your names?_" She explained her current predicament to our smiling faces, and having nothing better to do, we followed her upon a marvelous journey through the train. Our quest: to find the lost toad of yet another yearmate, Neville Longbottom.

"_I saw him at Diagonally!_" My outburst was met by turned heads and awkward silence. "_Neville, not his toad. Oh, nevermind!"_Though we searched high and low, I regret to say that we found neither head nor hide of the amphibian. We even got a Prefect to try summoning it, to no avail.

We found out later that some third-years had been practicing their transfigurations upon it, having picked it up outside the station. They handed it off to Hagrid, when we arrived at Hogsmead station - and from there, it found its way back to Neville.

Arriving at Hogwarts was, in itself, an experience to match holding my wand for the first time. Framed in light against a dark, starry sky - braziers and windows reflecting gently off a great lake, with the castle's twin shimmering softly in the water.

All around, witches and wizards zipped by on broomsticks - tending the gardens and orchards late into the night, or else checking the wards or guiding stray children back to the assembly. I hadn't realized how many people were on the train – it must have been charmed for a larger inside. Hundreds of students poured out, the latest Magical generation in all its glory.

After quickly donning our school robes, we crossed a narrowing in the lake in groups of four, our small boats propelling themselves serenely through the water. Little can be said about how the light played off the ripples, except that sometime the Magic of nature is to be respected and awed.

We landed at a small dock on the other side – it connected to a steep and lengthy stairway, which I take a small measure of pride in having climbed much easier than many of my classmates. Still, Ron and I had been breathless, both from exertion and excitement.

Surprisingly, Hermione not only had breath to talk, but hardly seemed to stop on the way up - her anticipation building within and flowing out in an endless babble of facts about the castle, and its houses. Some I had read in "Hogwarts, a History" – but most of it was new to me, and I drank it in eagerly.

I hadn't thought much on the houses - Ron seemed to have a great dislike for Slytherin, but "Hogwarts, A History" seemed to indicate that many famous and wealthy folk came from there. As well, the head of house - Professor Snape - is a renowned potions master. And, my thinking at the time went, an under-age witch or wizard can practice potions at home _without_ violating the statute of secrecy. It was a tough call to make.

No one else seemed to get much of a choice in the matter of their Sorting, anyways. The hat would go down, the hat would scream out a house, the appropriate tables would clap. Until my turn came up, that is.

I'd sat upon that stool for a lot longer than the other children. So long that even Dumbledore's twinkling eyes had taken a worried tilt.

...

**'****_Are you sure there's no Gryfflepuff? Slytherdor? Raverin? Huffleclaw?_****'** The hat had found my questions endearing at first, but was by no means amused anymore. The second round of questioning had been tiresome and trying – by now, I had moved to inanity and pestering.

'_**If you don't shut up and let me Sort you, I'll put you in **_**NO**_** house!'**_Needless to say, I shut up. The hat _hmm_'d and _haw'_d for some time, and – to my growing discomfort – dug deeply into my mind. It didn't bother explaining what it was looking for, or what it was doing, or asking politely.

'_**I may well have to put you into Slytherdor, though no such house exists.'**_ The headmaster began to rise from his seat and make his way over to me, for my eyes had become lidded and my face quite pale. '_**But to fulfil my duty, and for the sake of brevity...'**_

"_**SLYTHERIN!"**_ Dumbledore jumped back with no small amount of shock, as the hat screeched in his ear.

Hushed whispers filled the room. Then, a slow clap. Professor Snape's echoing applause was followed quickly by the Slytherin tables, and I made my way over – with Ron's troubled grimace following my every step.

A seat was opened for me between two other first-years: Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott. However, I hadn't liked their looks – snotty noses upturned and eyes full of haughty condescension. I chose my seat at an empty end of the table, making very sure to let them know I didn't miss their invitation.

If I could re-do anything this year, it would've been that. But I hadn't known, and the consequences were slow and far-reaching. I'm only eleven, after all!


End file.
